


The Owl King

by F0rce0fnatur3



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Adult Sarah Williams (Labyrinth), F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-23 04:33:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23005798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/F0rce0fnatur3/pseuds/F0rce0fnatur3
Summary: The Goblin King is dead...at least in Sarah's normal life he is...but what happens if that turns out to just be a rumor?
Relationships: Jareth & Sarah Williams, Jareth/Sarah Williams
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	1. Rumors

When I was a child, I thought like a child. But I did not do childish things. In fact, I don’t think anyone could call what I went through childish. But that feels like a time long, long ago. Even now if I think back on it, my mind becomes a fog. And then one day I just---forgot entirely. I do remember the days after vividly. I graduated and parted with my drama club family. I struggled with my major but suddenly all these dreams and thoughts of harrowing tales wouldn’t stop springing to my mind like an unlimited fountain from a spring that burst and never dried up. At first I would scribble the stories down in notebooks when I was supposed to be paying attention to the lecture in front of me. Now at twenty, I’ve found my calling and have become one of the bestselling fantasy novelists of my generation. I’ve heard all the praises. To be so young and have one of the most sought after series. One scholar I met at a gala party in New York City told me fantasy novels were an elder mans game. The older the person the wiser the writing as if the pages were scrolled on ink and parchment paper itself. I gave them their props as they rightfully deserve, but I planned to hold my own. I’d rather contend with the older crowd than the young teen romance category. I had no interest following on the coattails of finding a way to weave a story about a werewolf or vampire. I’m just waiting for the mummy revolution to peak.

Now, I stare at a blank page. My well is congested and I need inspiration but a deadline for my eager fans want a rushed job. No one asks a baker to take the brownies out of the oven because they’re clamoring to eat it before its ready, mindlessly spooning the hot batter into their mouth. I understand the impatience but this is why the good writers have one hit wonders, or a series, and then slowly peter out for indefinite hiatuses. I can’t just expunge something onto blank pages without inspiration to fuel my motivation. So I gaze out my window on the reading nook watching the city life buzz about. I wish I could just reach down and pull their thoughts from them and manage to get something cohesive enough to send to my editor. I wring my hands around my coffee cup too jittery to even take another sip, the perfume from my eight o’ clock brew souring in my stomach. I can hear the battery warning on my laptop but I’m frozen where I sit. I came up with different plots but nothing made sense. I would need to cram at least four hundred pages into the novel and when I got rolling and tried desperately to fill the pages with random ramblings it came out in cliché bits and pieces that made no sense.

Tonight there would be another gala and this was a black and white only listing. I was prepared but that’s who I was. I was ready within seconds. If I was given three hours I would be ready in three minutes. Always itching to go. Why slow life down anymore? Maybe it was just my mindset as a writer, maybe it was the pressure from the public. I was already a book behind and itching to be at this gala, perform my part of dutiful famous author, and then slip away with a spoon of ice-cream in my mouth and my silk gray pajamas on my body. Suddenly a thought rolled over my mind making me feel suddenly ill. When had I become the mirror image of my stepmother? My insides coiled tight like a sailors knot and I couldn’t stand to have this cup in my hands any longer and be alone with my thoughts. I needed to keep busy to numb my mind and run on autopilot.

I glanced at the one newspaper clipping I saved of mom stuck to the corner of my corkboard. Around her ideas were peppered on yellow sticky notes. I was stuck in my fantasy that worshipping an absent parent who left dad and I behind for the stage, for fame and fortune, had abandoned us took precedent over reality. Before my epiphany I lived in a world where she would come back because daughters were invisibly connected to their mother’s right? Like sons and fathers. I had dreams she would ride through our suburban neighborhood on the whitest steed---well in a white limo, and she would come out with a plume of feathers in a pink boa around her neck and her finest ball gown and she would announce she was here to storm the castle and take me away with her where we would live in riches and in the lap of luxury. That’s the word she was, luxury. But that’s all she was. She wasn’t a dream that would ever come true. A mirage. She was just a word. One everyone knew how to speak, and only the rich could afford to. When I finally grew into myself and knew she was just another selfish story I made up in my head, I put my scrapbook and pictures of her away. Even now they’re packed in boxes I doubt I’ll ever open. The article is recent, her career had slowly plateaued when younger famous musicians rose to fame and glory on the stages of Broadway. And in some way, I had to thank her for popping my bubble of dreams because I didn’t want to follow in her footsteps in reality. Or dad. Or my stepmother’s assumption of what I should do with my life. I needed to do what I wanted. What _my heart_ and **head** wanted.

But now I’m stuck. In a bog of eternal stench. I raised a brow. That was an odd way of phrasing something. What did that even mean? What did I even just think? Before I could grasp it and replay the sentence it was gone. I needed air. And possibly something to eat. Normally I would go for a jog before the night fell but I had an hour left to get ready so I did what anyone would do in my position. I took a much needed nap.

As I scan the crowd I notice little things. Another perk of being a writer. People watching. Noticing details. I watched couples stroll in, one couple shied away barely making it through the door when they realized they had forgotten or weren’t notified by the theme of the party. Even champagne colored attire wouldn’t fly in the mayor’s presence. The women who wore their hair down had coiled them in delicately hanging curls that bounced as they floated across the marble floor. There wasn’t a straight haired woman in sight. I was thankful I chose last second to throw it up in a chignon before I left from the house. I had to admit I still hadn’t mastered the art of being able to glide like most of these women had with heels and dress trains. My mermaid style dress was all in black and the design made it hard to take a good stride. I never cared for alcohol. I never developed the taste for it. The most I would take is a glass of wine, any color, and that was on my worst days. But I felt foolish just holding onto the flute of champagne clutched in my hand. Perhaps I could discretely slip it on a passing tray or abandon it in a less frequented area. I longed for my settee, ice-cream, movie, and pajamas. Depending how the night shaped, maybe I’d skip it all and just go straight to bed. Since I wasn’t stalled in conversation or mindless babbling I stole my chance to discard the flute. As I turned I became arrested by a form. I cursed wishing I had my precious solitude back. A bulky man towered over me. His jet black hair was slicked back and went against the grain of men who wore the signature penguin suites of stark black. He was dressed entirely in pure white. His hazel eyes bore into me seeing me and not just scanning over my bodice as most of the suitors that had pursued me during the eve had been. I spent more time dodging the men in heat that I barely noticed if there were any noble guests not just looking out for the single stragglers for a one night stand.

I shrunk into myself and flushed tearing away from his gaze giving a slight curtsy. As much as the restriction of my dress would allow me to bend my knees. And then I felt even more awkward because I did that. I felt my brows knit and I mentally threw myself out a window before grounding myself. I expected him to start the conversation but perhaps I was being vain. Not everyone knew about me even if I lived in a city packed with my fair share of fans. I was used to having others pounce on me with immediate greetings and questions. To stop my internal suffering I chose to open my mouth and end my misery of turning into an awkward child and reminding myself that I was an adult. Am one. Speak!

“Good evening.” Oh good, I just used the opening line to every gothic and creepy character would use. I really floundered instead of thrived in large gatherings. I wanted to wipe the slate clean, I hadn’t realized half of my champagne had been slugged back. I became aware of the stinging in my ankles and the pain on my feet as I balanced on my heels. He parted his lips revealing pearly whites. I could see his dimples and I found my hand busying itself by brushing a stray strand that had come lose from the chignon behind my ear.

“It is.” His smile was warm and inviting. But I was on high alert none-the-less. I wasn’t sure how to further this conversation. I’d give anything to have my joggers on so I could shift my weight side to side. It was my _tell_ that I was uncomfortable. But I was restricted in these damn stilts.

“Are you here accompanying the mayor in his entourage?” Aside from the orchestra playing at the base of the stairs I could hear the soft chuckle in his throat.

“Unfortunately no. I was a plus one with the Matthew party.” I had no idea who they were but I nodded in agreement as if I did. “What about you, lady?”

“I only got my invitation because of my status. I’m a hot ticket item until my success runs its course and someone else comes along to claim the limelight.” I whisked my flute in the air toasting to my misery and draining the glass abandoning it on the wide railing. I was drowning. I wished for my friend from college to be at my side. She was excellent at steering conversations away from my failings.

“That’s usually how fame works. May I ask, what your profession is now?” ‘Now’? It was an odd way to say something but I disregarded it as a slip of the tongue.

“I’m a novelist.”

“Fancy.” He waggled his brow and now it was my turn to laugh. It came out more like a bark.

“Mind if we speak more but actually participate in this party by dancing?” I felt my face pale. I was meant to be a statue. One that showed up, soaked up the atmosphere, and then left without being drawn into something complicated. Like dancing. That was complicated. Especially in the prison I handpicked for myself. He offered his arm and I gratefully took it stepping as if I was made of china. I literally took baby steps painfully listening to the stairs announce our decent when the butt of my heel ricocheted in the scoop of the room. I could barely get one foot in front of the other, my dress demanding my steps be smaller.

He blessedly closed his stride into small boxy steps allowing me to move with him. He lead, and I floated in the weight of his arms. His palm spanned over my entire back horizontally. I felt like a small hill up against a mountain. The tempo slowed, the musician’s skill amazed me. They could transition from fast pace to slow and sensual within the beat of a note. Before I knew it, we too had slowed, the only glimmer of having been keeping in step to the upbeat rhythm was my fast beating heart and the bead of sweat on the back of my neck. Somewhere between that transition, his body had mingled closer to mine and now his lips were at my ear in a gentle whisper. My eyes widened. I was confused. What did he just say? Was that really what he meant to say? I felt my world splinter. I felt like a dark void inside my heart was going to swallow me whole and I would be rid of all the people and buildings around me.

I somehow made it back to my flat on the top floor. I slipped off my shoes, wormed my way into my pajama’s and when I came back to myself I was curled up in bed holding myself not caring that my chignon was half tamed and half wild. I didn’t even bother to wipe away my lipstick, clean the eyeshadow off with the liner above my lashes. I barely got my arm into the sleeve of my shirt. I hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on or button the shirt closed. My covers lay neglected at my back, my pillow barely touching the top of my head. I was staring into the black hole hiding the corner of my wall. Tears welling in my eyes. Why was I so tore up about this?

I felt the hot coals roll over my cheeks staining my silk sheets. My muscles were stiff, my circulation numb from sitting so still. Why was I feeling all these things that made no sense to me? The thing the man said didn’t even make _sense_. It sounded like a joke or something he stole out of a novel. What did he mean when he said ‘ _The Goblin King is dead?_ ’ and why was my heart breaking?

I pulled my phone from the belly of my clutch opening up the web browser searching for anything that could connect me to those words. How was I supposed to react to that? Why was it even _affecting_ me?! My mind was **screaming**. I found forums with geeks talking about video game references. Millions of results were nothing more than mindless ramblings of geeks and nerds. Broken phrases about movies, books, television, games. There was no viable information present. Frustrated I threw my phone against the wall but heard it hit my vanity instead shattering the mirror. I gasped at my own failings sliding off the bed to clean up my mess. My flat was empty. It was full of things that adorned the walls and filled the spaces so it didn’t look barren but---the truth was it was just me alone living here. I got to work brushing the pieces into the dustpan pausing when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a giant ragged shard.

Hadn’t those words meant something at one time? A title? I had an odd hazy thought that I was meant to remember something. Something significant. But my work took precedence. _What that man said was nothing_. If it was a message it fell on deaf ears. Maybe it was just highbrow humor I forgot to gloss in the New Yorker. But that was a business magazine and no imagination or right brained people were allowed to even grace those pages. I got the vaguest of feelings that I had been on the other side of this mirror once. A fleeting thought. I disposed of it climbing back into bed regretting the ruin of my mirror and phone. I was a person meant to be on call any time of day especially for my editor. I would rush first thing in the morning to the store to get a new phone and hastily set up my mailbox.

I stretched arching my back like a cat reveling in the warmth my flat offered through the central air system and gazed out to the skyline barely looking back at my with a slit eye of pinks and purples. No signs of orange yet. Coffee time. The heavens answered my thoughts. I heard the timer chime awake and the maker got to work gurgling the water I poured the night before come alive. All I would need to do is feed it creamer and retrieve my mug. I tapped a key on my laptop forgetting momentarily that the battery warned me the night before I needed to charge its juice. It wouldn’t matter. There would still be a blank page and a blinking cursor angrily ticking to remind me my own time was slipping away to start a draft. I couldn’t get what the stranger whispered to me out of my head. I paced feeling the ache in my feet from my heels from the night before. I had darted from the party wanting to stretch that space between me and my dance partner. Away from his words. Away from the mocking eyes that gave me a headache and dejavu.

It would’ve been easier to hail a cab but I felt like the world was crumbling down on me. I was choking and I needed to breach the surface and gulp lungful’s of air. And then I practically fell into the lobby before the doorman or desk clerk could barrage me with questions. I knew I was disheveled. I didn’t need to be prodded or gawked at. I clambered into the elevator fishing the key to activate my penthouse suite on the top floor. I wanted to get home. I needed my bed before I passed out here. Fifty stories up and I stumbled into my room listening to the whirling gears of the elevator haul itself back to earth while I stayed floating in space.

I escaped the footmen who were busy busing in luggage and packages of other residents. My main focus needed to be a new phone. With my laptop dead I needed access to the internet now more than ever. I knew my editor would be trying to get ahold of me. I tried to keep my thoughts singular but after I began setting up everything on the little device I found my curiosity drawing me back to the same spot I fled from. Who was the man that approached me and I danced with? Why did he single me out? Did he know me? Was he using code that I should know? Was it a password to get into somewhere?

All my thoughts were spinning in a jumbled mess worse than a tornado at level five and I wanted answers but only gained more questions. 


	2. Confrontation

My editor summoned me to a small café that was created from the fictional one from Friends. It was moderately crowded but easy enough to pick out her shock of blonde hair from the crowd. Her brow was furrowed. I knew that look well. She was going to deliver bad news. It paired with my inner duality from the earlier blow. It weighed inside me like a stone. Now I saw my career fall through my fingers. Dread and panic wracked me. My novels would decrease in figures, the profit I shared from the sales would reduce down to a dollar until people could only scrape the books from garage sales. I felt myself hardening. And then I was facing her as a shell, numb on the inside, and nothing on the outside.

“Oh Sarah…I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all night!” She peeled her eyes away from the tablet in her hands shooting a glare from her glasses to my eyes. I barely noticed. I didn’t even notice there was an urgency in her voice. Everything felt delayed. Time slowed. It felt like ages until I comprehended what she said. I raised a brow groggily blinking my eyes as though I had just woken up.

“What was that?”

“Your numbers have been growing in popularity overseas. I’m arranging a scheduled interview in one of the best bookselling stores in New England. As you know you were approved to sell there as well as a few other international countries but it seems London has absorbed your story and taken such a fondness for your trilogy that they want to know what’s in the works for this year. I thought this would be an excellent opportunity for you to speak about the upcoming debut of your new novel as well as help your figures climb. What do you think?”

What could I say? I was speechless. Seconds ago my world was shattered and now the pieces ran in reverse fitting back together. Every thin shard forming itself back to something substantial.

“This is so sudden…”

“I understand. But we do have a limited gap since in two more months your book will be fresh off the press and ready for sales.” I found my courage had dwindled and I couldn’t tell her that I virtually had nothing ready. How could I face these new people who would be peppering me with questions about a draft that doesn’t exist?

“Sabrina, give me a run down as to what will go on during this appearance.”

“Well there will be a radio interview, there might be photoshoots, a signing of course, a brief Q and A as well as some inspirational speech you can conjure, and three days for you to explore the city. I’m hiring a local guide.” Seemed fair enough. In fact I might only just touch upon the topic of the new novel with a vague description. I was in control. This is what politicians did all the time in the media. Avoid the real issues, direct the conversation in your favor, and answer questions with questions. I was nothing more than an icon versus and authority figure. I could do this. Maybe I could even escape from my thoughts and leave them behind on the plane.

I was already home sick and we hadn’t even left the country yet. There was the business of preparing for travel. When it was all said and done I yearned to stay in the comfort of my home. That was the point of being a novelist. I could become a recluse as much as I want for the sake of having a validated excuse to stay shut in. Not to mention the more attention I received the less I felt inclined to appear at public events. I wringed my forefingers around one another. I hated traveling. Hated being on planes. _Keep your feet grounded_ dad was always barking at me. This was far from the ground. I bit back my laughter when the saying ‘keep your head in the clouds’ came to me in the most inappropriate setting.

London was built over water, by water, and that meant there were bridges and ships passing. At least the city I lived on was an island with one way on and off. There were canals and passages that I could easily lose myself in here. The buildings weren’t all huddled together like a group of people standing close to each other. Here the building had gaps like the teeth of boxers. Nothing was intimate. I wanted to be outside of this. To see the greenery, to submerge myself in the rich history of the tales that surrounded the country side. I wanted to hear about red caps, werewolves, trolls, goblins…I froze in the lobby of the hotel. The last thought lingering momentarily in my head like an echo in a cave.

The desk manager had an accent so thick he mind as well have had a sock in the crook of his mouth. Sabrina spoke while I mulled on the word. It was familiar. Aside from the line the stranger spoke to me that word held a more potent weight.

Sabrina began hanging her dresses in the provided closet while I dropped my luggage and rest my sore bones and stiff joints on the bed.

“I hate hotels.” I muttered. Sabrina laughed quietly.

“Why is that? You don’t find a little _magic_ in being somewhere else and feeling like a little kid excited to explore your new surroundings?”

“No. Every time I’m in one I wonder if they really washed the bedding. I think of all the dried juices on the bed, the walls, just…everywhere.” I shivered. “I’d rather sleep in the street.”

“I don’t think so. If you did that, your feet would come away black.”

I watched the paling light ascend through the clouds. My body was begging for sleep. I needed to adjust to the time zone switch as quickly as possible. I thought it would be easy if I willed my mind to convert to it, but I hadn’t realized it would feel like a bag of flower strapped to my chest. I was sluggish.

“At least there’s a queen here.” She scoffed shutting the cabinet door coming away from it. She said something but I was already asleep letting the jetlag pull me under.

I awoke to Sabrina shaking my shoulder. She drew the curtains away from the windows blinding me for the second time. I squint trying to peel myself off the bed.

“What is it?”

“Tonight we’re to meet someone whose been looking forward to you signing an edition of yours and speaking to you one on one.”

“I’d rather not do one on ones.” I muttered dryly.

“She’s paid for twenty thousand dollars of your time. You can even keep it short and have it just be an hour.”

I went through the motions. I answered every question my ‘super fan’ prodded at me. I endured being on a morning radio shows interview and didn’t complain when Sabrina toted me like a shiny accessory to hot spots and local clubs. I had no interest in acting like a cat in heat. Didn’t care to be courted or pursued like in New York. I had enough when one Brit got handsy and stalked off to the hotel room abandoning Sabrina who was flirting with a man with far too big of teeth. I was tired of being viewed as an item instead of a person. I was an object to photograph, to touch, to move like a doll. I ran my fingers over my eye sockets feeling an overwhelming urge to disappear. I felt incomplete. I just wanted to be back home. I wanted to hide away under my covers like a child. I pressed my palms to my eyes not allowing the tears to roll down. I wish I could live in the pages of one of my books.

I fell to my knees. I prayed. I pleaded. I begged. Then I heard something. Faint and far away. I felt like I was underwater, the voice was distorted, garbled, and drifting on the tide. I wiped the mist from my lashes looking around. It was probably my neighbors in the other room. We were barely separated by a paper wall. I felt the faint chill creep across the back of my neck. Sabrina had neglected to shut the slit of the window completely. I had to admit it was nice having fresh air circulate in the room. The curtains gingerly fluttered at my wrists. I found the frame guiding it along down clamping off the cold outside. This was a dusty cold. Not like in the city where it was electric and held fat flakes. The flakes here were smaller, and meaner. They bit.

The curtains settled and I heard the whisper of my name behind me. As faint as the breeze had been. I scanned the empty room. Maybe I needed an escape. I could find a house in upstate New York. A cabin maybe…Pennsylvania was nothing but mountains and forest. But further South would be Gods country. Mountains with purple majesty, and yellow trees peppered against the blue foreground. Or somewhere tropical. Where the cold was banished. I yearned to rip free from the constraints of being bound to deadlines and contracts.

Then the voice resounded. I spun on my heel and froze. The man from the party was there, in the same attire he wore back home. I felt ice crawl through all my veins. Had he followed us? A stalker? How did he get in? I need my phone! I need to leave!

But he was broader than the door itself and blocking my means of escape. My body shuttered threatening to spasm in tremors. I held my hand to my throat. Any means to put up a barrier between myself and him. How dangerous was he? His size was certainly undefeatable. He was a hulking mountain. He raised his hands, fingers to the sky, palms facing me.

“Don’t be afraid Sarah.” The low ground of his voice was as smooth as coffee with hazelnut creamer.

“You!” It sounded more a threat than an accusation. “Get out!”

“Sarah it’s alright. I’m not going to harm you.”

“Good. Then leave! Immediately!”

I shuffled back to the window. We were too far up to make a daring escape over the ledge. I wouldn’t even entertain the prospect of scaling the side of the building finding protection in my neighbor’s room.

“Sarah you have to go back.” I shook my head but he continued the onslaught of his words. “Sarah I know you can’t remember. That’s the magic working against you.” Oh God…he was a crazed person. He was going to have his way with me and then leave me to bleed in my room.

“Please just leave!” My voice was as sharp as a knife’s edge.

“Sarah listen to me…”

“No! Help!” I beat against the wall.

“BE STILL!” His voice shook the room like thunder. The scream died in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I barely was able to keep myself from fainting.

“Please…” He cast aside my words. I was forced to listen to a madman.

“There is a _witch_ using her magic against you. The fact that you’ve grown up and distanced yourself makes it harder for you to remember and makes her spell stronger but there’s still something inside you that has that small echo that can bring you back.”

“What are you talking about?!” He hissed at the word ‘ _witch_ ’ and was spouting utter nonsense.

“I know you don’t remember. And I can’t force information on you to make you remember. It must come back to you naturally.”

“You need help. I can get you it---“

“You aren’t _listening_. Look…for the longest time you’ve been feeling… _detached_ from this world. Haven’t you? Like you don’t belong. That you are missing a giant piece to you.” I **stilled**. I never acknowledged that fact out loud or confided in a journal or my closest friend. I never uttered those words to anyone. They were a dark secret only privy to my knowledge. He was reading from my cracked skull revealing my deepest thoughts that I forced myself to stuff down.

“I don’t know what you mean.” My voice sounded haughty and arrogant.

“ **Yes you do**. Somewhere along the journey you made, you felt like you didn’t belong here. You felt like you had made a decision that you regretted.”

“Every human being feels that way.” My voice was faltering. My conviction was crumbling.

“Yes. But not every human being has been through what _you’ve_ been through. You’ve endured. You were pulled into a great challenge and faced it head on.”

“What did you mean when you said…” I couldn’t finish the words. They would ache in my throat. How could I possibly entertain this?

“ _The Goblin King is dead_.” I paled when he finished the phrase I was too cowardice to utter. “He is my king. And he was your King. And now he’s gone.”

“I don’t understand.” My voice was barely a flutter. I felt my tears welling in my eyes again.

“You do Sarah Williams. Because _once upon a time_ you made a **wish**. _Once upon a time_ there was an owl. _Once_ your brother was small and you were but a girl then. And in your dire need as a child your **wish** was heard. Across the ponds of worlds. Your plea reached into our world on the whisper of the wind and our King answered your call. Once upon a time he tested many others like you. Boys and girls, men and women. They were deemed _unworthy_. Their kin joined our ranks. _Once upon a time_ , the true queen actually put a spark of _fear_ in our King’s eyes. He had seen many passing faces like yours, all blurred and became the same. Had even dealt with girls who shared your name. He became complacent in the hope they would stir something within him. But _once upon a time_ even if that girl had _fear_ in her heart, she found strength in friends, she decoded the puzzles before her. Realized that she could reshape the pattern of the game before her, for if our King could cheat, then she would meet him head on. _Once upon a time_ our Queen refused the throne. Refused the gifts that could be bestowed upon her. She refused even when he offered her the greatest thing he owned. Because he had watched her grow from a girl to a woman within thirteen hours and the spoiled thing inside him burned away like fog sapping away in the tendrils of sunlight. And her strength stayed and still lives in those realms. While her body returned here. _Once upon a time_ her calling had been rejected and now she moves like a ghost in the life she chose now. That girl was you, Sarah Williams.”

“And what happened to the King?”

“He’s dead. Or so the witch claims. But that’s just a _rumor_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my bebes. So just a little address to those who continue to read this. I have always been a fan of the Labyrinth and I know nothing could touch on or pick up where Henson left off but I've put a lot of thought into how my version of the story should go. I hope I can give fans back some semblance of what we've been waiting for since the story came out. I have read all there is and watched behind the scenes and rare footage on my favorite movie and so characters that are within the novel, concept sketches, and other works will be put in here. There may also be minor oc's as well as one big one. So I say unto you. I hope you enjoy my version because the goblin king may be watching over all of us in the heaven's and no one can take his place...I bring him back to life here on the pages before you.


	3. The Last Door

The weight of his words blanketed the rest of my actions as I adhered to making my appearance in the bookstore. I spoke on autopilot. Cue an emotion here. Insert a dramatic sweep of my hand when relaying a passage from my book. Parrot this part here. Deny this. Approve that. I was moving in a monotonous manner and I must have been tapping into my acting skills from a time before because even Sabrina didn’t notice I wasn’t my usual self. That’s all this outcome was. A play to be acted out until I could escape back to the room and see if the mountainous man would return and tug at the strings inside me that vibrated to life when he spoke to me in a language that seemed forgotten. All my earlier emotions dissolved and I felt like I finally had opened my eyes for the first time in six years.

I was self-destructive. I sabotaged all my relationships with men and dashed all hope to a chance at having it successfully blossom into something grander. Was what the man said true? Did I really refuse the hand of a king once upon a time? I had the vaguest of memory of me being the spoiled miserable child I was wanting to be like my mother. I wanted someone to come along and sweep me off my feet. But when I was looked at. Really looked at and not through I felt uncomfortable. I remember there was too much responsibility that came with that attention and doubt throttled me until I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating and I wanted to run away from it. I just wanted someone to pay attention to me, to love me, but when I received it from the shadow of my memory I remember breaking glass just to escape from it.

Being a woman now, I realize how foolish a girl I was. I was only pretending to be as grown as I am today relishing in the delicious thoughts of being tended to. But then someone saw past the painted faces and costumes I pranced about in as if I was older than I actually was, I turned tail and knew I was not yet ready. I summon the memory. His face is a blur, the colors monotone, I could only grasp at shadows. But I faintly can see his lips. Thin and pressed in a hard straight line. I caused that scowl. I caused his pain and my own. Stupid little girl.

I was locked in a swarm of people preening to touch me or keep me with them until they were sated by answers from my lips. But I felt the familiar sting of being suffocated by a crowd. I broke free. I could hear Sabrina calling to me and the fans clamoring to give chase. I thread through the buildings going to the city’s dark corners just to get away. I was set on my destination and it wasn’t here. I needed to see the man again. I needed to get back to the hotel. I lived in the shadows until I felt safe enough to walk among the others who only spared a two second sideways glance continuing about their business.

I brushed the strands of my hair from my face and leaned heavily against the railing overlooking the mirrored surface of the canal. I felt his presence before I saw him. It was like a gentle warm breeze at my back in light of the cold misery I was going through. I looked over my shoulder and saw him stride over beside me watching the wave’s lapse from the passing ships at our feet.

“You’re not going to _scream_ are you?” That coffee ground voice of his was still and even like the puddle beside us. There was no threat, only sarcasm. He already knew my answer and was now just teasing me because of my actions the night before. I felt a little jar of irritation but channeled it into my grip on the railing and kept my own tone light and polite.

“No.” Neither of us needed to engage in eye contact to acknowledge one another.

“Good. Because I’m your last door to my world and if you chose to close it then I wouldn’t go against your wishes.” I felt a _pang_ of sadness in my heart. “You’ve forgotten your friends but they have not forgotten you. At first I’m sure you caught glimpses of them, like phantoms behind the windows of the buildings you’ve passed. Then there was a vague recollection or a feeling that you could recall something conversant after gazing at certain things like clothing or landscapes. Am I wrong?”

“No.”

“You’ve lived in shadows your whole life Sarah. The shadow of your mother, of yourself and what you imagined yourself to be, of your father’s expectations, of your family, of your career.” _Family_ …I straightened my posture feeling all my muscles tense beneath my skin.

“I admit I still _don’t get along_ with my step mother but---she gave me Toby. And for that I have to thank her. He’s been a supportive rock in my life. I couldn’t imagine my life without him.”

His meaty fingers walked the railing and found my hand taking it up within his. His voice was as soft as silk. Hardly any grind to his words.

“Sarah. Will you go back with me?” I searched his eyes for a seed of deception. I felt like a paper torn in half only being held by a flimsy piece of tape.

“If what you say is true then there is already cause for no hope. Why would I go back to something that has been empty since I was gone?”

“I told you it is but a rumor that our king is dead. This witch draws strength from your failings. With the span of years since you’ve been returned to your world she’s grown strong and unstoppable.”

“There is nothing I can do for you then…” His smile reminded me of the jagged edges rocks carved into ragged triangular points against the mountainside. Like the rock biter from _A Never Ending Story_. I was taken aback.

“I seem to recall a girl saying and feeling those same things once upon a time. And yet here she stands having overcome her laboring trials, **victorious**.”

Sabrina chews me out on our journey back to the city. In an odd way I don’t yearn to be back inside my penthouse. The Mountains teasing sparks the curiosity I hadn’t felt since I was young. The years rolled back to when I was fresh out of school and flourishing as a new student in college eager to find my place in society. In reality Sabrina’s words bounce off my ears as I lightly sketch little figures in a notebook that’s stuffed with some sticky notes of abandoned ideas. My ears perk at something she’s said.

“Did you say _Didymus_?” She raises a sculpted blonde brow and her expression is sour and unyielding. Her tongue lashing at me, like a barbed braided rope.

“ **No**. I **said did you hear me missy**.” Sabrina is ten years my senior but still feels like an equal kin to my age. I went back to my mindless sketching feeling my head fill with clouds as thick as the ones we were in.

Sabrina left me with a strict warning that I better produce a draft by the weeks end. I left her cautionary behind on the drive to Maryland. I felt my pride swell when the wheels touched over my homeland. The familiar sight of the buildings painted as faint ghosts against the gray slate of the sky. The colonial and old timey feeling that came with the spray of the sea and the salt in the air.

This was the place of my birth. This was where mother and father had humbly vowed to live while I still grew in her belly. She had uttered false promises of giving up her life of fame to have a family after falling madly in love with dad. She would be a doting mother. She would pride herself in keeping the house clean and being a good hearted wife to her husband who worked all day to keep the house filled with her innermost desired possessions. That’s all she did. She acted. She couldn’t love in small favors, she needed it to be grand and majestic. She played pretend like I had done. She set up plays in her mind and acted them out by being a mother who cradled her babes head in her arms.

She besotted my father with sweet words as delicious tasting as the perfume she wore to keep hold of him and glamour his senses to dull them. But then her acting became a routine she would repeat every day. And then it wore her down. There was no one there to applaud her after she finished the dishes or made a laboring meal. There was only an audience of one and I was too absorbed in my baby world to even pay any mind to her when she danced in the room and sang to me. I only knew her by her moods and my feelings. There was love. But then one day there came distance.

Dad had come home to a perfume spritzed paper and her script of cursive and curls stating that she was making her grand return to the theater. There was no remorse in her leaving. No guilt that she was leaving us behind. There was only her grand design of how she would live in the limelight. The media lapped it up for a time. I grew older. Dad grew lonelier.

At first we would talk about how she made a silly mistake and that she would come laughing through the door claiming she would whisk us away with her to the grand opera houses and we would live in a ritzy mansion with her on the high top of a green hill. Dad said she just needed work because that’s how she was, she was a busy body. She would be back. But then the letters of her success became sparse. Then one day there were no more letters in our mailbox at all. We got our information from the paper.

I adopted her smug attitude after I turned ten and shed my childish whims. I wanted to be grown up so badly and follow in her footsteps that I didn’t recognize what I was doing was being childish. I knew everything at that age. I knew I was an adult even if my actions didn’t reflect it.

I joined the theater club at twelve. I would start small like her. I would grace the pages of our school scholastics and eventually word of my arduous rise and talent would reach the ears of the local paper and spread to the bigger leagues. Mother would notice me then I was sure of it. I would work hard to be just like her. I memorized every play she’d ever been in, I even came up with my own. Maybe we could act together as a mother daughter duo.

Then I came upon a book I found in a library that was going out of business when I was thirteen. All the stock had to go and I came across a red cover and gold lettering. The outer edges were lined with the thick black square that outlined the cover and hid roses and winding vines. There was no author. It was simply called: _The Labyrinth_.

Never had I come across a book where the contents didn’t hold the date of publication or was without an author’s name. The pages were light between my fingers as I flipped through and I was enraptured by the story. I begged father to buy it for me. He obliged. I think all he could see at the time was the sadness of a shadow of a girl who missed her mother and needed to fill the hole of her leaving. What could he do to appease me but fill that void with materialistic things? The contents of the book were about the story of a young girl braving a labyrinth to get to a castle and go against the cruel king that lived there. She had made a deal with him that if he would grant her deepest wish she would do anything for him. He wanted her freedom in return for this exchange. To be used as a toy by a king who could never be placated. She would help pass the slow grinding of time.

She begged for another way and in his boredom he thought of a most riveting way to _appease_ his **boredom.** He would create a game. He would give her twelve hours to solve this game and if she could _not_ he would change her into a grotesque creature that would torment other people that surely he could summon in the future to play his games with. But during this time he was careless and new when creating the game and as he watched her solve easy puzzles over time he made them harder and crueler even resorting to cheating just to see the hope abandon in his victims eyes.

He was sloppy and in this defect she had completed the puzzle in record time. She found magic along the way, magic she stole from him to get back to her world and the memorable words ingrained in my mind were spoken. I imagined myself as that brave girl but made myself clumsier. I imagined the labyrinth to be so difficult that I barely scraped by with little time left to gain my freedom. I conjured a story that he fell in love with me.

I was still far from remembering what it was I was meant to remember. But once I got off the plane I had broken the seal to the box of things I put away as a teen and found the book preserved and waiting for me to reread it. And I did. Now I set my sights back here on my home where it all began hoping to find some semblance of answers that were piling up in my brain in the form of unyielding questions. I hesitated at the stoop. I could see the garden growing beautifully where we buried Merlin three years ago. I was so distraught over his loss that I didn’t come out of my flat for a whole month. I survived on the hunger that eluded me forcing to take minuscule nibbled bites of saltines and smelt to high heaven once I finally peeled myself from the mess I became.

The hyacinth’s and roses worked beside one another in bright blooms that flowered in the still chilly air. The leaves on the giant oak beside the bed rustled as if he was saying hello. I smiled and knocked.


End file.
